All Things Are Old
Leaving home is peculiar
Strange, not in feeling. The strangeness fades in the waiting
In being. Home is all you know. Alone
Foreigner. Strange lands. New customs to learn
Study. To live. Exist far from what you know
You wil adapt
They say. Hang on. Give it a year
My chest hardens. Don’t wanna go
Can’t stay
The boogeyman moves with you. To your beat. In you
Everything is new except for me
All things are old, excluding me
Tainted Saint
She was sure they were watching her. They had to believe her. If not, she was doomed. She wished she could hear what they were saying, but inasmuch as her hearing was slightly better than average, she could not hear through walls. The two-week battle in her mind on whether or not to come to the station had been lost.
Behind the mirror, the two detectives stood watching her, unsure of what to do.
“Morio, is this something?”
“What?” Detective Morio turned to look at his colleague in surprise. Considering it as the truth was insane. “Come on Otieno, we’ve known Bacha for how long now?”
“Well, since I came to the precinct.”
“Correct, and since I was just a kid. We threw rocks into the river on the way home from school, ate samosas on Saturdays after football at Afraha Stadium. If anything, I know the guy.”
Detective Otieno watched her keenly through the glass. When she came in, she seemed very frightened. Her words echoed in his head. Just listen to me and if you don’t believe me, then at least I have done my part.
“I mean,” Detective Morio continued. “The guy is my friend. He makes most of my meals for heaven’s sake. In fact, I’m hungry for some chips masala.” His colleague smirked. “You know what this is? I’ll tell you.”
Detective Otieno remained silent.
“Always thought she was trouble. I just didn’t know how much. I mean, Jesus! To make such an accusation on someone who provides for you, especially when they didn’t even have to. That Bacha’s a saint, you know? She’s his father’s bastard. Showed up on his doorstep a week after the guy died, talkin’ ‘bout she just found out. And sure, I advised Bacha to take a test, with the blood thing, there’s a test for that these days. So I told him, take a test, man. But bless his heart. The guy took her in. No questions asked. Just opened the door and asked her to move in.”
“But she has the sock,” Detective Otieno said. “Surely that’s something.”
“The sock doesn’t prove anything,” his colleague retorted. “How many pairs of socks do you have?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I even wear mismatched coz I can’t find partners…”
“Exactly, my friend,” Detective Morio said. “Who knows where the sock came from. Bacha just needs to let this girl go. If she starts with this, imagine what damage she could do to him.” He placed his left hand on Otieno’s shoulder. “Let’s get her over there. Might take the chance to have some lunch.”
Detective Otieno sighed and turned to leave the room. Maybe Morio was right. With their history, Bacha and his half sister would have to solve their issues at home. He walked into the interrogation room and found her sitting just as they had left her. She looked like a statue, with her braids tied in a neat ponytail and her sunglasses placed perfectly to hide the milkyness of her eyes.
“You have to leave, miss.”
She jerked. “What?”
“Get up,” he said, handing her the cane. “We can drop you home.”
Her forehead creased into a frown. “No, wait-”
“There is no wait. You should know better than to waste policemen’s time like this. Come on,” he was helping her to her feet as she struggled.
“Please. You can’t take me back. He will be so angry. You can’t do this!”
She was screaming when Detective Morio walked in asking what was taking so long.
“Now, girl. We cannot waste time here. I am a hungry man, and the only thing that keeps me going is your brother’s plate of chips masala. If you do not walk out of here with your so-called evidence, we will have to find a crane to lift you from the premises.”
***
In the car, she sat at the center of the back seat, her cane folded on her lap. She had been so sure they would believe her, a stranger who had lived in the town for four months, over her brother who was a local. She had to leave.
“I knew your father,” she heard Detective Morio say. “Good man.” She also heard what he was not saying. That the man who had fathered her could not have had a child out of wedlock and kept it to his grave. He was a church going man. He could have made some mistakes, but he was a saint and she was the taint on his gravestone. Bacha had opened his house to her but the town was yet to give her the key. “Yes, thank you,” she said to him.
During the10-minute drive, Detective Morio gave an anecdote about a camping trip her father had taken with him and Bacha when they were ten. It involved hunting and shooting and some details she missed.
She used those 10 minutes to mentally locate all her belongings so she could pack as fast as possible and sneak out. She would not wait to fall victim.
***
At the cafe, Bacha was in the kitchen and Mrs Wanjohi was cleaning the floors, so the detectives had to wait outside. She walked in, said hello to the cleaning lady and found her way to the staircase that led to the upper floor. She had to be quick.
“Hey,” Bacha’s deep voice startled her. “Why are you tiptoeing?”
Her mind went blank. Was she tiptoeing?
Mrs Wanjohi’s ripple of laughter followed almost immediately, easing the tension she felt creeping in. “Oh I think she’s trying to show my floors a bit of respect. It’s alright love, you can walk alright. Your cane doesn’t do much damage.” She opened the door to clean outside.
“No.” Bacha’s voice boomed again. “Don’t go upstairs. I have a surprise for you.”
“Is it upstairs?” she asked.
“The surprise? Um, not exactly. I need to clean up over there before you can go in. I left quite a mess this morning.”
She stood with her right foot on the first step. Her mind raced with what to do. She needed an excuse to go upstairs. “I have to get my book.” That would do it.
“Look,” she heard a bang as Bacha threw her huge braille Sherlock Holmes copy. “I brought it down for you already. It’s on the table.”
Turning from the staircase, she tapped her cane towards the table that was closest to the kitchen entrance. When she reached it, she felt for the book, grabbed it and took a seat.
“Aren’t you going to read?”
“I’m waiting for my surprise,” she told him.
“Where were you?”
“I went for a walk.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not…”
“What are Morio and Otieno doing outside?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they want some chips masala?” She sat back in the chair. It was over. She knew that he knew. His voice was strained with a tension that thinned her blood.
“I know what you do,” she said to him in a slow, menacing tone.
Everything was silent except for the chatter of Mrs Wanjohi and the detectives.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You murder people.”
He scoffed.
“It’s true.” She continued. “I had suspicions, until two weeks ago. Then Joni brought me home that day, and we stayed up late listening to foreign films. Well, I listened, and he described. Why hasn’t he called me back, Bacha? Why did he leave without saying goodbye? Why did I smell blood, just like I did a couple of other times, and the bleach that always followed?”
Bacha was silent. She felt his eyes on her. She could only imagine what his face looked like. Was he scared? Would he show it?
“You can’t blame me if some random guy doesn’t think you are worth a call back.”
“But that’s not it, Bacha.” she continued. “After I came from the bathroom and you told me Joni had left, I went back to my room to read. But it didn’t feel right. Then, I heard you leave the apartment and got out of my room.”
She heard him move away from the table.
“I could smell it. It was so strong, I think you messed up big time with him. There was more blood than usual.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” his voice came from the kitchen.
“Don’t I?” she smirked. She knew he was watching her. He brought back a knife. The blade scraped the counter top as he picked it up. She had to be careful. Her back was straight, her arms cradling the Sherlock Holmes copy on the table. “I walked into the living room that day, and you know what happened, Bacha? I tripped.”
He laughed. “You trip all the time.”
“True. On couches, tables, even my own feet. But never on a body.”
Ten seconds passed in eerie silence. “When I tripped,” she added. “I felt around for what had made me fall, because there is never anything on the floor. I touched his face, Bacha. There was a sock in his mouth. It was Joni. I am sure of it. His beard…” She felt his eyes drilling holes into her. Her body was tense. Her heartbeat quickened. Her palms started sweating around the book. She balled them into fists to stop herself from trembling. She had to show him she was not scared of him.
“You know,” he said, finally. “Some people said I shouldn’t take you in when you showed up. They claimed you were a liar. There is no way my father would have a bastard.” He dragged that last word like a nail in wood. “They all said,” he continued, “that you were just a dirty little leech here to take my money. You were just looking for a handout. How else would you conveniently show up after dad had passed? They say things about you, but I never listen.”
“I know…” she began.
“No! You don’t get to talk.” He banged a fist on the table, startling her. Mrs Wanjohi peered through the door and asked in her singsong voice if everything was okay. “Yes, of course.” Bacha replied, his voice back to its sweet harmless tone. She closed the door to finish with her cleaning. “You make accusations,” he continued, his voice low, menacing. “You accuse me of these vile things, like… an animal. I have been nothing but good to you. But you don’t know just how bad I can be.”
She was trembling to her bones. Tears stung her eyes as her chest constricted in panic.
“Stand up.”
“What?” her trembling voice asked, even as she picked up her cane, unfolded it and got up from the chair. “What are you going to do?”
“Let’s take a walk. We’re going upstairs.”
“Please. I’m sorry”
“Move, or I will use this.” The cold blade touched the small of her back. She felt the tip cut through her skin.
“Bacha, please,” she begged. The pressure of the knife on her back forced her to move forward. Blood trickled down to the waistband of her jeans. “I’m sorry.” She took the stairs slowly, trying to listen for the detectives. If they could walk in.
“No apologies,” he whispered.
As she opened the door, the smell of copper filled her nostrils. “Bacha,” his name escaped her lips.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get some bleach later.”
***
When Mrs Wanjohi finished cleaning, she returned to find no one in the cafe. The chips masala order was almost done. She prepped it and served them on the outside verandah.
Bacha came downstairs after the detectives were almost done with their meal.
“Where’s the girl? She promised to read to me some more adventures of Mr Watson.”
“Sleeping,” he replied. “Headache.”
“Oh, poor thing. I’ll make her some soup.”
“No, I will,” Bacha said. “Oh, and Mrs Wanjohi, please get some bleach when you go to the grocery store. We’re out upstairs.”
She made a note in her book as entry number 12. Bleach.
Nights
Nights like these
2:46am, a cup of black tea
Pen in hand, free flow
Pitter patter on my pane
Socks on warm feet
Nights like these
Need no wish
Creep in with contented chests
Cloud covered skies
Moon glowering through
Nights like these
2:53am, a warm blanket, crocheted
The final sip of black tea
A body in the covers
Held till daybreak
Counting down hours
On nights like these
To forget naught what day brings
Grey skies and showers
To never forget
Not-so Angry Endings
When I started this rant, I had titled it ‘Angry Endings’. I have since edited some of the angry parts out, and part of it may be because I had a conversation today[29/03/2023] that was overdue for ten years, and I feel great.
I have been contemplating endings, and not only because my Netflix subscription was for The Office and now that it’s not there anymore, it feels like a never ending vacuum of my money for shows I can find elsewhere. It may also be paramount to clarify that my thoughts were not of the self-harm kind, in case Kasarani’s upstairs business catches up with me. It is particularly strange when you are thinking of ending a phase you always thought would last for at least a longer while than it did. Maybe the cure is not wishing, because inasmuch as horses are a dream, I am realizing I am not one to ride through the bullshit.
There can only be enough times that you will do something that keeps you down in the dumps before you pull yourself out. And I know, I am sounding a bit over philosophical here. That is the intention.
It pushes you, having to remain at one point, circling. Made to be a hawk in wait for chicks that may never show. It makes you angry, and you try to remain calm, in your spot. But just as you have been placed there, with precision, you must remain. They know what they’re doing. Plus, malice is never an option. No escape. No expectation. You have to be still.
The possibility of being still is foreign for a heart that flies downhill on its feet. I blame Shadow and Bone for all the faux-deep philosophical madness spewing from me. Leigh Bardugo is a white lady ahead of her time. It is absolutely fascinating how good she weaves her worlds together.
It is like barrelling down a highway, as a 1960 Corvette C1 while playing Forza Horizon, but there’s a bus right next to you that’s going just as fast and it accelerates when you do, brakes when you crash and picks it back up, and, get this, it is also not a game you’re playing. Chasing to no end and for no benefit. No endorphins provided with a high score because the finish line is always changing. And you try, your index finger pressing on the accelerate, trying to control everything that keeps falling apart, when all you need to do is release to get back to yourself.
I have no tolerance for adults that choose ignorance. For a friend’s friend who is full of complaints about nothing. For lovers that pretend to know you but choose to not listen. For family that, well, you now know share blood, but not common sense. I have been at a knife’s edge [a safe knife]. The last year has been insane. We have been in a whirlwind of trying to stabilize a career that keeps evolving, chasing dreams of school that are finally working out and moving around looking for meaning. Looking for topics that come fleeting and rarely stay to be anything tangible.
Audrey Niffenegger writes of a time traveler and his wife in her debut novel. Henry DeTamble time travels involuntarily since he was 5 years old. However, inasmuch as his travels take him away from Clare, they also lead him to her, years apart. It is fascinating how a story weaved in the eyes of literal ghosting finds space to be romantic. They both long for each other, while being together in different timelines. We are in an obsessed, can’t put it down, might be my favorite book of the season kind of time.
The curveballs have been plenty. They flooded each corner we tried to hide in, and I am exhausted of hiding. I know it for a fact because it has happened before. It will happen. There will be more shots to pull this heart out of my sleeve. I know this for a fact because it has happened before. At the risk of sounding like Gandalf, be the phoenix, though the fire burned nowhere as bright as 2022.
This note, is an ode to things that we have to exit from. Lack, withdrawal, cowardice, blame games that lead to nothing. I am no masochist. May they end. Amen.
***
Vulnerability is armor too. Sometimes being your authentic self is the best protection you can ever have.
Billy Chapata [@iambrillyant]
From a faux-deep mosquito
You assume I am in hiding
That I find you terrifying
When my mouth can do
More damage than you
Okay, maybe not
But if I get away
With blood on my hands
And lips and stinger
Who’ll be laughing then?
And not in hiding
Suffering ceases to be suffering when it finds meaning
Viktor Frankl
I watch you in the dark
Yours cannot see me
Your frame, delicious in most parts
Marked with palms that slap
To kill
Kin squished
Blood spilled
Yours, granted
But if I get away
It’s your blood on my hands
There were seven sisters…
There were seven sisters. Zosa, Bumis, Pos, Sera, Pimnis, Pejil and Zicharo.
Zosa had the hustle. Her love for her effort got her foot out of bed in the morning. She hated that she was emotional, but sometimes, people did piss her off. That’s what happens when you have things to care about. She couldn’t do calm like Bumis. Even though she knew her sister’s calm was always a facade, Zosa wished she too had the talent to hide behind a smile. She wished she could quiet her mouth at times. It had proven futile.
Pos was dirt poor. Not that the choice wasn’t hers. She had lived the life of being catered to. She had the life with the government man to care for her every whim. He had even loved her child like his own. He had paid for ice creams she never enjoyed, internet connection she rarely used with her android phone and had earned her clerical diploma under his account. The government man had done everything her family considered needed for a happy marriage, but she had chosen the janitor. Her heart led and she followed into the shanties crowded together in a slum deep in the heart of Nairobi.
The thing about Sera, was you could never put a finger to it. Just when you thought you were figuring out her ways, she morphed into a totally new entity. Sera, the last of the sisters, had the heart of Brutus and the exterior of Julius.
Zicharo was quiet. She basically whispered her words all around the house, if at all you could find her. She was in the nooks and crannies. Her hiding spot was changing by the day. Zicharo enjoyed the cat, Cat, who had fur so white, sometimes Pos compared her to rich people. Despite not being the youngest, Zicharo was the shortest and the subject of the most bullying from her siblings.
For Bumis, being an example to her siblings was never in the cards. Mother moaned almost weekly of how Bumis had taken longer than any of them at birth. Pimnis was always getting frustrated over Bumis being late, having her tunic unironed at breakfast, adding a teaspoon of sugar in her tea even though there was enough. Bumis liked having everyone not depend on her. She did not envy Pimnis.
Pejil was just as middle children are. She was a mix of things you did not understand. She asked for cereal at dinner time and stayed out late “watching the moon”. The only person who knew Pejil a little more that the others was Bumis, and only because the latter was another mix of things. Pejil carried filthy novels to read at church. Her library was filled with obscene and banned literature, with room for several whodunnits. Said library was a sacred 4×6 ft box that was passed down from their grandfather. The box was filled with old scrolls, newspapers and texts from a time before any of them were born. Its blue chipped paint held on to dear life as the few books Pejil had rummaged from begging teachers and the occasional theft.
The world revolved around Pimnis, though not in the way you would expect. She kept the wheel rolling from when her foot touched the ground till she lifted it back into bed to sleep at night. With mother’s health failing, all the heavy duties had fallen to her. Delegating was never her strong suit, especially with a sister like Bumis who was no use. Pimnis liked doing things the right way, and the only way that would happen was if she did them herself. So she did.
***
Kids, someone suggested a tangible plan for short stories and I thought to myself ‘How about we set a tangible plan for short stories for the kids’ This plan sounds ingenious. It might work. Or we may find exciting new ways to self-sabotage. Whatever it takes, I made up seven sisters. Hope you will like them
Caught In a Candle
What it is, I’m unsure
It flickered, may have lit up
There’s definitely no cure
Trust, I have looked
What it is, I am grateful
For talent, that comes as easy as the sun and moon
What it is, as it flickers
Is definitely not a blast
It is caught in the wax
Sticky, but hard when cold
the blizzard too strong
And it, caught in a candle
Midnights
Late into the night sky;
Do you lift your eyes to the heavens when I call to you? When the night sky is dark except for the shimmering and I face a crescent cut. Do the strings pull in your chest as mine hope ever so hopelessly?
You come fleeting by
As if nothing means everything and truth lies on your sole. Crushed, awaiting an end to the era that never was, and is it coming? Am I good enough? Are you? The mirror cracks every time it doesn’t and no words can fix the facade. Fleeting like the memories once held dear, a deer deep in tall faded grass.
Moments like these are what make dreams
Midnights come with illusion. Theirs is the only time a heart holds another. The only time we allow it. For one can barely differ real from naught and the lies can turn to dreams. Are what you dream of like mine? Are they filled with you? Do you treat the land of your dreams like these that are mine? Is it a moment too late when the clock strikes twelve?
What they are when life’s real
They are truth. They are tangible and I can taste them at the back of my throat. Boiling anger. Frustration at what could be. What was, and wasn’t. They are exquisitely satisfying, these lies. Telling of a time that did not quite exist. When life was simpler and it was an easier existence. What we are, is whole. With or without, through and through.
The Way
You live by way of pert
Arms outstretched; Intuition shut-down
Your soul an ewer of emotion
A visionary sans vision
Packed fresh for Thanatos
With dreams of red
You live the way they act
Stuck in cocoons of unsteadiness
***
I kinda sorta maybe feel like myself again, finally, and will post every fortnight till the year’s end. There is nothing to report, kids. Everything is great, which makes me wonder when the other shoe plans to drop. However, until it does, I plan to revel in this energy.
I came to this poem with an idea of what I wanted it to be, and a title. I came bare. Empty. Exactly how I have felt for a while. And I built it up from there. I came to this poem, knowing without knowing.
I’m still into the dragons, both of the house and of Galbatorix. I don’t have much, but I have those and they’re enough for now.
Short Story #3a
I have a cold, and was rained on today. So, I found that reason enough to take it as a reminder to post this before Thursday ends, because that’s how deadlines see my boots! I feel much better [from the cold] and might actually sleep better that I did last night, if at all. This is another short story that I kept telling myself needed a second part too many times that I actually gave it a part B.
**we still have no title for this, so we’ll just call it ‘Short Story 3a’ for now
Short Story 3a
If there was one thing that Joseph knew about his mother, it was that she kept time. With her tiny wrist watch that she barely looked at but always seemed to know what time it was, his mother was a special breed. She was reliable. Everyone said it to him. Not that he didn’t know it himself. People only had a strange need to remind him of things about his mother. They told him how beautiful she was, as if he didn’t marvel at her face every morning he pushed past the bed sheet that separated his sleeping area from the sitting room area to find her, smiling at him while two cups of tea steamed on the stool before her. They told him how kind she was, as if he never noticed her giving most of herself everyday to people who didn’t appreciate her enough. People liked to say things about his mother.
They talked of her bravery. How kind, generous and honest a soul she had. They said things he already knew. How she was always where she was supposed to be. On time, with her clothes fitting and proper, topped with the brightest smile in any room.
Joseph’s mother, with her tiny wrist watch on her left hand (because she needed her right hand to “do things”) arrived five minutes early to everything, and never a second late. Her hair, always in perfect curls that she labored over the night before so she would have enough time for him in the morning. People admired the natural curls on her head, unbeknownst to them of the forty five minutes she spent each evening to tie bantu knots on her head before carefully tying a satin scarf to sleep.
People only saw what she allowed. He knew more. He heard the sighs she released when it was just the two of them. Saw her closed eyes as she fought back tears (or what he assumed were tears) when she came out of Mr Damu’s home office that day.
“What’s wrong?” he has asked her, ready to go through the heavy set doors to fight the bulky man sitting behind the big mahogany desk. She smiled at him and said everything was fine. No matter, she would tell him when she was ready. She always told him when something bothered her. There were no secrets. It was just the two of them, and the unwritten rule was that they would keep nothing from each other.
“Nothing, Monkey,” she told him.
People had been watching. She couldn’t have told him then. He would wait till they got home. Wait till she went behind the bed sheet. Ever the gentleman, he allowed her to change out of her outside clothes first. The house was big enough for them, but some compromises had to be made. For a few minutes each day, while changing into pajamas, and out of outside clothes, or right after a shower, one of them was behind the bed sheet that separated his sleeping area and the sitting room.
“How was your day, Monkey?” she would ask while behind the sheet, her breath short because she was trying to change out of her clothes as fast as she could. He knew she loved looking at him. Her monkey. He has started disliking that moniker. He knew if he told her, it would break her heart, and the last thing Joseph wanted to do was break his mother’s heart.
Going to the Damus’ mansion was something she had talked about all week. “If they give me a job, it will pay better. They’re doing interviews, you know. Sandra told me. They need someone to take care of old Mrs. Damu. Poor thing has Alzheimer’s. Can you spell Alzheimer’s, Monkey?”
A-L-Z-H-A-I-M-A-R-S
She laughed. He remembered her laugh. Bubbly, rich and coming from somewhere deep in her stomach. His mother laughed like the world needed to hear the tickle in her throat. It was a beautiful laugh. Everyone said so. It was a laugh filled with flowers and puppies and cinnamon pancakes. When his mother laughed, their house became so huge that the walls echoed with the sound. “Replace the other a’s with e’s”
A-L-Z-H-E-I-M-E-R-S
“That’s my genius boy!” she said, emerging from behind the bed sheet that hung on a rope that ran along the roof, separating the room into two. “Well, how do I look?”
It was an unnecessary question. Everything she wore found a way to fit around her slender figure. She looked good whether she tied a leso around her waist or wore her Sunday clothes, like she was. The bright yellow skirt and white embroidered cotton blouse that he knew all too well were perfect just as they were every other Sunday.
“Monkey? How do I look?” she was waiting for an answer.
“Stupendous!” He recalled a word he had learned at school. It brought the smile he enjoyed seeing. The gap in her front teeth showed first, followed by dimples so deep he could drink out of them. She ushered him out the door and locked up.
“Here,” she told him. “You’re a big boy. You can carry the house keys today.”
Joseph took the keys from her, a responsibility he had asked for each time they went out. The keys felt big in his hands. They felt heavy and he liked it. He closed his fist around the keys and held on tight. He would be damned if he lost them.
When they got to the Damus’ mansion, Joseph marveled at the house. They were first led to a room that looked like the reception at a hospital. “Please wait here,” the maid in a black and white uniform told them as she hurried off to tell the big man of their arrival.
***
Oh kids! So many things are happening, and I know a whole lot more about dragons now, counting all the HOTD content with The Inheritance Series that I’m devouring in the time I can steal.